I couldn’t find my happiness this past Sunday. I tried.
I couldn’t find my happiness this past Sunday. I tried.
I wasn’t slated to work that day, but I had gone in early for a problem and then, later, learned that a customer had reduced a staff member to tears with bullying. The day ended with phone line trouble, a saddened and frustrated staff member walking me through it over her cell phone, and another trip from home to work.
Sundays aren’t a day that’s dictated. I don’t have a set schedule on that day of my week. It’s always a little bit loosey goosey. Usually.
But there must have been a subconscious plan in my head for that day that just wouldn’t come true, and by the end of the day I was blue. Sad. Pissed.
But today – another snow day – I found my delight in not wearing my watch, making breakfast for a teen, playing and losing four games of Scrabble, watching two movies, and taking one nap.
I had no set schedule in mind when I went to sleep last night and none when I woke up. It seemed to help.
Pure happiness.
My niece reminded me last week of all that is important about snow days. Carefree smiles.
This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam…
This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam with my gynecologist, after which she called to let me know that my test results showed an abnormality and she wanted to take a closer look. During this second visit, after a look-see, she calmly said, “I am going to take a couple of quick biopsies.”
What happened next is a bit fuzzy, because when I heard “biopsy” my heart stopped beating and my head started to spin. My family doesn’t have great history with biopsy results. And, in my experience, biopsy spells CANCER.
I don’t have cancer. I may never develop cancer. And I am more than willing to have these cells cut from my body later this week.
I think I may even survive the heart stopping attacks I have suffered during this process. First, biopsies. Then, waiting for results. Then, being told I have high grade cancer-causing cells. Then, the call to let me know the amount I will owe the hospital Friday after my very expensive health insurance is done accounting for the 80/20-out-of-pocket-co-pay-deductible-not-covered-under-your-plan-matrix-of-go-screw-yourself-lady-coverage.
But talking about CANCER in relation to my body has changed me forever. I will learn to live with the reality that my body carries a virus that causes cancer sometimes. I will learn to forget about it for long periods of time. I will learn to not live in fear of cancer. I will re-read all the anti-cancer lifestyle books I have read because of my mother’s breast cancer and my father’s lymphoma. I will make more lifestyle changes. I will feel blessed that I had the resources to have preventative care. I will get more sleep. I will continue my journey to control my anxiety and my stress. I will eat my fruits and veggies. I will walk thousands of miles for my health. I will show up for all my exams and tests in the years to come. And soon I believe I will feel lucky that I don’t have cancer.
But I will never again walk into my doctor’s office with the same confidence I did before this happened.
This week, my father is travelling to MD Anderson in Houston for a battery of tests to find out if his 18+ months of chemotherapy is working to put his lymphoma into remission; my mother is at home without an ounce of breast tissue left on her body; and I am joining some of my friends that have been in my same situation.
I am writing this blog to continue the public conversation about cancer, and to help remind myself that we are finding treatments and strategies for prevention and that every day we are closer to a cure. To encourage everyone to get yearly exams, and to educate yourself on your own health.
And I am writing this blog to bolster my own strength in the fight against cancer. I know I should feel like one of the lucky ones, but I don’t yet. I believe I will soon.
This week my daughter’s class is practicing “random acts of kindness”. This is one of her acts of kindness today. And it is exactly what I needed. I get a big smile out of her using “Mumsie”.
These are the flowers my father and stepmother sent me on their way to Houston for my Dad’s lymphoma testing. I am deeply touched by their thoughtfulness.
Shortly after Christmas my daughter and I went camping in coastal California. It was peaceful. It was also nice to be outside (although a bit colder than we had wanted) all day, every day. We spent most of one day on this beach.
It was the perfect way to spend a day.
A couple of days ago I posted this blog. When I came across this image today, I thought it was a great addition to the stacking stones images.
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out.
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out. She was escorted by her son and his wife. She had all the makings of a woman who has come to terms with her older status and her condition. Bright, clean tennis balls adorned the front two supports, and sturdy sneakers held her in place. Her steps were slow and purposeful, bone and muscle clearly full of the memories of a few steps previously misplaced.
She was over 80, if she was a day. Well-groomed. Tidy. And the man, who I took to be her son, was my father’s age. 60s. Established. Comfortable in his life. The woman with them was his age, but he was the direct link to the walker, I surmised. All wore wedding rings, but the deep relationships ran beyond the binding of gold.
My grandmother at a STUFF party in 2001.
I saw them coming towards the car next to mine, and I decided that pulling back a bit to give them room would be so helpful. The tail end of my sedan was pretty much protected by the monster SUV idling to my right. A distant memory reminded me that you need room to maneuver a car door, a human and a walker. You need space and time and patience.
When my dad’s mother was in the last few years of her life, she was relegated to a walker. She took to it pretty well. She was a joyous and happy woman most of her life, and what would be a set-back to many just kept her moving, which kept her happy. What I remember most about this time was the feeling in myself that it was time for me to slow down, too. Rushing through life needed to abate, and I needed to watch more and see more. I had to be missing things by not standing still a bit. By not waiting. My time with her was clearly running shorter, and I learned much from her final years about myself and my family. Some of us couldn’t wait to ditch her walker at the restaurant after getting her settled. Some of us would apologize to others in public for our speed, even if we weren’t impeding their progress. I noticed strangers would occasionally have trouble making eye contact with me, as if my grandmother’s limited ability was a freak show they shouldn’t be watching. On several occasions, my grandmother would start to make conversation with an able-bodied stranger, and they seemed shocked that she could speak clearly!
My niece and her great grandmother in 2005.
Much came flooding back to me as I watched this group leave the ice cream store while adjusting my car’s position. Tears came to me slowly, and I was transported back to a cool, brisk day several years ago when I took my grandmother out for her last Coke and short walk. Within 24 hours, the beginning of her end would start, and she would soon take me on a journey that would eventually end at her graveside.
My son, niece and grandmother in 2007 at my grandmother’s birthday party.
When the stranger had his mother seated in the front seat of his car, he and his female companion walked toward the back of their car, and he said to me, through my open window, “Thank you very much. That was kind of you.” I was barely able to choke out the part about how it was the least that I could do.
“I remember it all so vividly,” is what I told them from behind my sunglasses. And I do.
This past November, I found myself unexpectedly and briefly on the beach…
This past November, I found myself unexpectedly and briefly on the beach in Montauk, New York, for a couple hours. My friend and I came across some stacked stones. I think stacked stones are magical. And I have played with stacking myself.
These unexpected temporary sculptures are the combination of an artist’s desire to create something beautiful and some gifts of nature. Which makes them magical to me.
I took these photos with my phone with the Instagram app. I dig Instagram and would love to see your photos, too. So…find me…caseysimmonsloveswaves and let’s become Instagram buddies.
I have a weakness for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I know I am not alone in this. We are almost at the 50 year mark of his death, but his words still make me want to be a better person. To do more. To make change. To be part of the solution. To speak out. To act.
I have a weakness for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I know I am not alone in this. We are almost at the 50 year mark of his death, but his words still make me want to be a better person. To do more. To make change. To be part of the solution. To speak out. To act.
This morning, I attended a breakfast at the University of Missouri – Kansas City. It is named “The Freedom Breakfast”, and for the last 23 years it has not only celebrated the achievements of Dr. King but it has fully recognized the African-American leaders in our city who have made a difference in the quality of life – not only at the university but in the city as a whole. Today, however, it was the words of Chancellor Leo Morton that riveted me to my chair. He alluded to the fact that life is different now than it was in the early ’60’s. Sure, it’s better, he stated, bit it’s more difficult as well. There may no longer be big huge signs that say “Whites Only” or “No Blacks”, but sometimes, sometimes the meaning is still hanging in the air. Elusive. Secretive. Sneaky.
Words are powerful things. I never met Dr. King, but his words still sing through time. He and Abraham Lincoln may be the greatest speech writers of all time. Hands down. I can’t really walk through the Lincoln Memorial without crying. President Lincoln just holds on to the arms of his chair like he’s about to launch out of it to hand me a tissue. I wasn’t too far down the Freedom Trail in Alabama this summer when I had to pull the car over. Some fool had put a portion of a speech of Dr. King’s on a billboard. They should know that driving and crying are dangerous partners.
At the breakfast this morning, we were asked to sing along to the Black National Anthem. I knew the words without reading the program. Honestly, I never really knew this was the Black National Anthem. I knew it as a song you sing at rallies for equal rights, equal pay, fair labor practices and human rights. Today the words struck me as those that could have been sung at the “commitment ceremony” I attended this past weekend for friends who achieved the blessing of their church after 22 years together. These friends are not protected by the laws that secure my husband and me in marriage, nor are they officially allowed to use the word “married” to describe themselves, but the 3-minute ovation they received would and should marry anyone.
I see a great and continuing need for action and change. I will be a part of it. I have to be. And not just because Dr. King said, “We are not makers of history, we are made by history.”
Sing along with me now:
Lift every voice and sing, ’til Earth and Heaven ring, ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise, high at the listening skies, let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun, let us march on ’til victory is won.
I was packing the last two boxes of holiday decorations. I save the packing of the ornaments for last. They usually come off the trees on a Sunday, migrate to the dining room table for removal of the hooks, and, a few days later, I start putting them back into the tissue paper they hailed from just a month and a half before.
I was packing the last two boxes of holiday decorations. I save the packing of the ornaments for last. They usually come off the trees on a Sunday, migrate to the dining room table for removal of the hooks, and, a few days later, I start putting them back into the tissue paper they hailed from just a month and a half before.
I was putting the finishing layers – three per box – into both boxes at once and said to my husband and son, “If I dropped dead tomorrow, you guys would never open these again, would you?” They were only one room away, clicking busily on their computers, when the dove-tailed answers hit. “No.” Maybe one of them mumbled, “Probably not.”
These boxes hold memories. When I unpack them right after Thanksgiving, they rest on the dining room table – out of their protective wraps – while I stare at them and repair unglued joints. I remember tiny hands that made some, and this year I revisited memories of a long gone sister and the two things I have that she made as a child. I walk leisurely down memory lane during the busiest month of my year.
A few days later, when the three of us go to hang them all, I take a few minutes to point out several to my son that have real significance – my grandmother’s stitches, my great-aunt’s crochet work, his grandfather’s paint strokes, and his aunt’s ability with clay. I try not to overwhelm and have learned that four shout outs one night a year is the maximum for possible retention.
I don’t really know if the boxes would ever be opened by the two men I live with. A woman would open them if left in her care. She would wait a year. Or more. Then, one cold morning, she would brace herself with a box of tissues and her courage and rip those suckers open. She would visit each piece like a tongue lingers on tooth pain. Delicately, so as not to wince, moan or cry out.
I packed it all away. Again. The entire process is cathartic to me. I have many people to visit with at my dining table all year long at a myriad of events, celebrations and holidays. But the places and the people I can’t have back come delicately to me in December in the form of pinecones, angels, dogs, and snowmen. I touch them all. Hang them up to breathe. Live with them. Then, I let them go.
p.s. Full disclosure: This is not our tree featured with my son and me in the photo. This tree graces the lobby at The Rep every year during the seasonal run of “A Christmas Carol”. We visit it.
Earlier this month, an artist we represent visited the store. He shared with us a bit more of his personal history. The pain was apparent in his words and in his eyes as he told stories….
December 24, 2012
Earlier this month, an artist we represent visited the store. He shared with us a bit more of his personal history. The pain was apparent in his words and in his eyes as he told stories of his parents – who have passed – and his brother who has no time for him.
Our Children, 2006
What causes our friend the deepest pain is not knowing his brother’s children. As a man who educates children for a living and who carries a deep love of art into his personal and professional life, he is at a loss. The love of family is missing. But the love of the family he has built with his adoring friends is what holds his heart intact. He has built a home for himself – a place where he lives a happy, joyful life – with just a few bricks missing. He told us that he follows our family history as it evolves in our blog, and he admitted to being a wee bit jealous.
We are an open and affirming family. To us, that encompasses our lifestyles and our “mode of being”. Our house has no room for hate. The windows and doors are shut to those who judge people based on their sexual orientation, skin color, or choice of faith. We reminded our friend that the greatest loss is the one his brother is experiencing – which is not knowing true brotherhood.
It is our dream, in this joyful season of wishes, that our children continue the fight we are waging to ensure civil rights for all of Earth’s people. We are handing this dream to our children because we believe they are finally the generation that may see beyond all the silliness to look deep within the human before them before making a judgement.
Our children continue to be our hope for a free and just world.
